Waltzes
by Gray Glube
Summary: And this is what happens when you're dead.
1. Chapter 1

**Author**: grayglube

**Title**: Waltzes

**Summary**: And this is what happens when you're dead.

**Spoilers/Warning/Triggers**: Language, violence, sexual situations

**A/N:** So this is a two-shot. This first part deals with the majority of ghosts in the house just doing stuff. The second part will have them interacting more. I kind of just wanted to write some stuff to get the ball rolling on my ahs_exchange fic and get me in the mood. Also I wanted to write Violate smut, and that smut wouldn't have worked for my ahs_exchange prompt so I needed to get it out of my system somehow. The poems are Neruda, I'm not a large fan of poetry but Neruda kind of challenges that.

* * *

Part I.

Leave me a place underground, a labyrinth,  
where I can go, when I wish to turn,  
without eyes, without touch,  
in the void, to dumb stone,  
or the finger of shadow.  
I know that you cannot, no one, no thing  
can deliver up that place, or that path,  
but what can I do with my pitiful passions,  
if they are no use, on the surface  
of everyday life,  
if I cannot look to survive,  
except by dying, going beyond, entering  
into the state, metallic and slumbering,  
of primeval flame?

* * *

I.

When the House is empty, of any living residents, things happen. Routines persist, uninfringed upon by the flesh and blood and breathing.

No one's really changed, there's nothing to be gained by good behavior.

One of the perpetual teenagers might add "_no sign of heaven anywhere in sight_" a bit of wisdom set to a musical backdrop of a band that adheres to their policies of bitterness and regret and mental instability.

* * *

II.

The shrill ting of his alarm startles him out of bed. Connie must have gotten up early, a hair appointment or to prune back the roses in the wake of summer ending, he knows because she isn't hissing at him to be quiet after the alarm clock falls to the floor with a bang and keeps ringing, spinning itself in a jangling, noisy circle.

Maybe she slept on the couch again, too much Jim Bean.

Once the alarm is set back where it should be he sits on the edge of the mattress and scrubs at his face, the stubble rough against his palm.

He needs a shave.

The sink basin is steaming and the water scalds his hands pink when he dips them in, he jerks them back and clenches them tight to get rid of the feeling.

"Your wife went to the store."

Moira.

Last week.

In the bed where he sleeps next to Connie.

And here she is again. So different from his wife, shy, sweet, no venom and barbs from the woman who washes his sheets and mops the floors.

He enjoys how domestic she is, how she makes him feel like a man again, an important one. Not just a shit-stain in the back of someone's underwear. Connie has always been a ball cutter, but that's what you get where you marry a girl whose father was richer than you'll ever be.

Her nails are red and she's wearing a shade of lipstick his wife would make her wipe off if she was home to see, but she isn't home to see.

And he's got to go to work.

But the way her fingers are stroking the edge of the door is making him strongly reconsider.

"You're going to make me late."

"You went in early two days ago; you deserve to _sleep_ in a little. Don't you?"

She steps closer, he looks down, heels and underpinnings. He wonders if she's the one that sent his wife out for an early morning errand.

"You're going to make me _very_ late."

"Well, maybe you should take the day off. Your wife has her bridge game today with that awful neighbor of yours."

She's lathering up his shaving brush in a way that is inexplicably arousing.

Moira is a tall woman but not so tall that he can't peer down into her parted uniform blouse.

When it happens it doesn't hurt. There's red ribbons of blood spilling down his chest and over the obvious erection encased in his white briefs, it sprays into her face and he crumples on the bathroom floor like a broken toy.

* * *

III.

Brian calls Troy an asshole and Troy tells Brian to suck balls.

They go swinging through the front yard, smashing the hedges with aluminum bats. It makes a distinctive sound, the branches smacking against metal, hollow, light, like summertime and afterschool exploring.

Today they descend into the basement from the outside stairs and leave the door open, a rectangle of afternoon light Illuminating the first room they come into, stretching out across the cement floor. The light gets dimmer but it's not so dark that they will make excuses to leave on the basis of what lurks in the dark.

One twin smacks the other and a bat rolls under a work table. While he stretches underneath to retrieve it a wicked little girl dressed like a princess is waiting out of sight with a pilfered gas station lighter.

She giggles and the little boy with gleaming orthodontist work swears at the smell of burning hair. It's just singed but it makes both boys angry enough to chase the ghoulish little princess.

They are intercepted by a man in a leather jacket.

He won't do anything but he still sends them back out to the yard, he makes the smoldering girl hand over the stolen Bic and as the twins go they call him a faggot and break a jar holding a pig fetus.

* * *

IV.

Vivien isn't half bad. She's friendly and cheerful in the way neighbors who know it's your dog shitting on their lawn are friendly. Except it's not really a dog in this case shitting on the lawn of her and her husband's matrimonial bliss, it's his mouth on her husband's dick.

But she doesn't say anything and he doesn't say anything so they lie out in matching lawn loungers getting their tan on.

"How are things with you and Chad?"

"Better."

"That's good."

"How are you and Ben doing?"

"He surprised me this morning."

"How so?"

"He caught that cat that comes into the backyard and strangled it for me."

"That's nice."

Patrick adjusts his sunglasses and pours them both another glass of spiked lemonade.

* * *

V.

There's a boy she sees sometimes. He seems so sad. He never tells her what's bothering him, she never really asks but she's been told she's a girl you can really talk to. But he won't talk to her.

He's lovesick, she thinks. Maybe.

And sometimes he leaves books behind when he leaves a room.

And sometimes he'll quote the most beautiful poetry she's ever heard.

She tells him so and he'll smile at her. But his smile is sad too.

Sometimes after he leaves his books behind she tries to recite the poems in them like they're one of her scripts.

She cries sometimes, because she's sad too. Fame is so lonely and there are bigger tragedies than hers in the house.

* * *

VI.

There aren't many people in the house who are willing to help her keep the boredom at bay. Sometimes she reminisces with Ben while Vivien is otherwise occupied but largely she thinks of that as Ben's brand of manipulation, giving just enough to keep her wanting more of him.

An embrace, some handholding, a stolen desperate kiss that he'll allow. It's pathetic but there's something addicting about being rejected so violently.

Vivien, for obvious reasons pretends she does not exist. The littlest Harmon avoids her like the plague or throws a scathing remark in her wake.

Tate will tolerate her for short spans of time.

Travis is always up for a quickie and she likes to keep the little burned girls in the basement occupied with stories and cartoon character voices but their mother has a things about women who try to steal husbands, but she's warming to her, figuratively of course.

Elizabeth is a planet revolving around itself, their conversations don't last long.

And if Elizabeth is a planet, Bianca the number one murder groupie is a goddamn space cadet.

Fiona is so self-important that she'd rather get hit with a shovel than talk to her.

Dallas is a moron. Capital M.

Moira is prickly and sour.

Rolling a ball back and forth with Beau is only fun for so long.

Chad is the closest thing to a friend she really has, go figure. He doesn't care so much about her and Ben's history, because cheating doesn't really get his goat unless he's the one being cheated on. Other people doing it is just another conversation piece for him.

Mostly she's not sad or lonely, she's just terribly bored.

* * *

VII.

She caves.

Giving in to temptation and all that.

They don't make-out or talk the first time she goes looking for him, finding him half-asleep on the futon mattress he's dragged into an empty basement room, his own little hidey hole. They all have them.

He knows it's her and makes room, but they don't face each other because she'll leave if she has to actually look at his face and him because he probably hates not being able to tell her to fuck off, that it's too hard to have to look at her when he knows they aren't going to be everything they used to be.

She curls up against his back and presses a palm against his spine as the other creeps under his shirt feeling the thump-thump-thump of his fake heartbeat on her skin speed up, her nails scritch-scratch the fine dusting of hair on his chest and navel. Her fingerpads rub against the faint lines they might leave behind afterwards.

It's a habit. He used to smile, soft, sweet, and nice right down at her and call her a kitten. It was cute, made her feel like a mooning swooning fifteen year old girl.

She's trying to not cry, but her eyes are itchy and damp and she wipes tears away against his shirt covered shoulder-blades.

Before long she's shaking but he doesn't turn and gather her up like he might have before, she glad he doesn't. It's not like they're together anymore.

He's so warm though, she misses falling asleep warm, safe. With him. She feels him sigh, long and heavy and she cries harder, her nails digging in.

* * *

VIII.

Everyone has their little hours of operation. Not her. She's on, around the clock, whenever there's a mess.

Dust settles everywhere, blood gets on the carpet and seeps into the wood, mud gets tracked in by careless feet.

And it's a thankless job.

* * *

IX.

Between him and a few of the like minded others, they keep the house in working order. Order on its way to splendor. It's a distraction. Curtains and rugs and throw pillows, a new shade of blue from the upstairs bathroom. Robin's Egg. It's perfect.

Some fake flowers.

A few new light fixtures to replace those of non-Tiffany manufacture.

The house is almost liveable.

He has to set the redheaded double menace straight a time or two but otherwise the house stays as he arranges it.

It's something to do.

* * *

X.

He's no stranger to drunk, angry women, but she's not really a woman.

She's just a kid so he pushes her off him as gently as possible and tells her maybe she should go to bed.

She just snorts and calls him a pussy for turning down pussy.

He shrugs.

Tells her she's too young.

She asks if he only does grannies like Constance.

He tells her she's being a bit of a bitch.

She says go figure and lights a cigarette, offers him one that he accepts.

He asks if she's okay.

She says she isn't and leaves.

He lies down on the couch and blows a sloppy smoke ring at the ceiling, gets the feeling that he's being watched and looks around the room.

Constance's son is sitting in the leather chair across the room.

He doesn't look happy. Probably because his girlfriend tried to kiss another guy, tried to kiss _him_. And wanted more than just a kissShit. He makes himself scarce.

* * *

XI.

Charles makes the fire and she makes the drinks. It's a rare moment of peace for them. She's dealt with the child all day and she's positively exhausted and when Charles made an unexpected appearance to surprise her with a small gift of new pearls she felt lightened by the gesture and passed the child off to Nanny.

She touches the three strings along her collar and smiles softly, Charles catches her and grins brilliantly back at her. She hands him his drink and they settle in for a quiet night by the fire.

It's the loveliest evening she's had in a long time.

* * *

XII.

Vivian's named the cat Sheba. It curls up in his lap while he smokes a cigarette on the front steps. Animals have always liked him, it's always been something of a private joke for him. He was the reason most of the neighborhood pets went missing.

It's raining today and the smoke stays close, the cat sneezes and he grins down at it, humming a little. It opens a dirty olive eye and regards him warily. It should.

He pushes it off his lap, towards the stairs. It startles and catches itself, running away out into the rain. It sits in front of the closed iron gate and stares out at the road, tail moving against the wet walkway.

Ben stares out across the wet asphalt too.

Sometimes he wishes he could just walk out, he used to sit out on these same steps some days when Vivien was out somewhere and Violet was at school and think he could just walk out the gates, leave, never come back, never be found again unless he wanted to be. He did it before once, when he was a kid.

He could have done it again.

But he stayed and now he can't leave.

* * *

XIII.

She goes to find her daughter. Sometimes she's successful, most times she isn't. Violet can't be found if she doesn't want to be. She goes into the attic and finds Hayden instead. She doesn't stay to say hello. Her husband's betrayal is too real, too hurtful. Vivien doesn't trust herself with being around the things that have made her hurt.

* * *

XIV.

He sometimes has an audience while he works, he lets them thread needles or dissect a small piece of scrap animal he keeps on the floor by his work table.

The twin boys or the little girls are his usual guests. They are helpful when they aren't bickering with their respective siblings.

Other times the older boy who sleeps in another one of the basement rooms, some tenant of Nora's, one of the maid's boys or perhaps the driver's, comes and offers him a surgical mask of ether, helps him to his chair, or mops his head with a sponge while he operates.

They talk often, he's in love with a girl who does not love him. The boy reminds him of himself during his courtship of Nora. Charles tells the boy to show his affection through gestures, gifts really. Especially when words will not suffice.

Other times his guest is Doctor Harmon. A smart man who knows anatomy well enough to be of some help with his experiments.

* * *

XV.

It's no secret she's always disliked Constance. The dislike has persisted despite Lawrence being gone, despite Constance getting so old she can't walk or shit or breathe on her own anymore. The old women next door has kept love for a few things, despite her shriveled, pathetic body and heart. And soul.

If she has one. If she didn't sell it for something useless to her now.

Constance loves her children and her Pall Malls and her roses.

And when Lorraine lets the girls outside to play in the sun under the watchful eye of the nice young man who she thinks was far too innocent to get tangled in the strings of Constance's plans and shifting moods, she trails careful fingers over the blooms she can reach.

Their leaves and petals and thorns blacken and crisp up, smoldering as she goes. And Lorraine smiles. Petty little amusements. Pastimes, really.

* * *

XVI.

There are mean ugly boys who live in the house who take their dolls and cut off their hair and melt their hands and feet off on the furnace. There's a monster in the basement that is scary looking but silly too, because it's wearing a dirty lace dress with ribbons on it.

Sometimes it comes out while they are in the middle of tea time. It doesn't want to play though, just leaves them presents and then goes away after they dress them up.

The presents are dead though and some fur is missing, tails too, their eyes drip out of their head sometimes but after they put them in dresses and tie the hats on them, they are okay to play with and sit in little Barbie chairs. They sit in them better than their old dolls did.

And when her sister annoys her she can throw the stinkiest one at her to make her shut up.

* * *

XVII.

He tries to write her poetry but he just can't figure out some composition of words that would make her mind turn back to thoughts of him.

He tries to do her favors, killing, maiming for her benefit.

But she knows why he's doing it. To win her back, not to set things right.

Setting things right has never been his thing. He's always been a fuck shit up kind of kid.

No amount of damage to anyone else around will help fix the things he broke between them.

* * *

**A/N:** Yeah, just one last part after this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author**: grayglube

**Title**: Waltzes

**Summary**: And this is what happens when you're dead.

**Spoilers/Warning/Triggers**: Language, violence, sexual situations

**A/N: **Here's the second half. Life is crazy, I keep having to say 'no' to things because I need time to write dirty fanfiction and play cards with my grandmother, also I still have to start that scarf ohyellowbird. I started writing this to write violate smut and eek! It didn't even end up in here. Why? Because it was fucking up the flow and so I am going to write the smut and post it separately as a kind of outtake PWP.

Who knows I may do a few outtakes for other characters as well.

* * *

Part II

I touch hatred like a covered breast;  
I without stopping go from garment to garment,  
sleeping at a distance.

I am not, I'm of no use, I do not know  
anyone; I have no weapons of ocean or wood,  
I do not live in this house.

My mouth is full of night and water.  
The abiding moon determines  
what I do not have.

What I have is in the midst of the waves,  
a ray of water, a day for myself,  
an iron depth.

There is no cross-tide, there is no shield, no costume,  
there is no special solution too deep to be sounded,  
no vicious eyelid.

I live suddenly and other times I follow.  
I touch a face suddenly and it murders me.  
I have no time.

Do not look for me when drawing  
the usual wild thread or the  
bleeding net.

Do not call me: that is my occupation.  
Do not ask my name or my condition.  
Leave me in the middle of my own moon  
in my wounded ground.

* * *

I.

He sleeps like a little kid all played out. Sprawled out on his back, arms thrown up over his head, fingers half-curled towards his palms, legs open wide with one knee hanging off , shoes kicked off in his sleep.

And she's sitting on the floor watching him like a creep, wondering how long it would take him to wake up if she put her hand on his knee, worked her way up, kneading into his thigh, cupping his groin, pressing the heel of her hand firm where his dick is, enough to get him half-hard.

Wondering if he'd be surprised to find her rubbing one out for him while he wet dreams about killing small animals and setting people on fire. She sighs.

His mouth is open and his eyelids twitch as his eyes follow what he's dreaming about.

She takes off her hat and puts it in the space behind his head and the arm of the couch, and then she puts her lit cigarette between his open lips. She shakes a little trying to smother unrestrained laughter.

The cigarette falls out from between his lips on an inhale and it falls in-between his clavicles, then rolls unto his neck, he's awake at the first sting and jolting up at the second.

He picks the fallen cigarette up from the couch cushion behind him and evens out the hat that's slipping halfway down his face.

He takes a drag and falls back, the cigarette held between his fingers.

She plucks it from them and smokes the rest while he puts a hand under his head and watches her from under the brim of her hat.

"Can I ask you a question?"

She scoffs and picks at the frayed threads at the ripped knee of his jeans, "Not if I can guess what it is."

"Okay."

She lays her head on his thigh and sighs, "I'm really lonely."

"You realize your parents are shit company then?" There's no smirk in his voice, he sounds sad for her. She's so damn sad all the time now, not in the same way she was before. Before, she was alive and a teenager. Now, she's dead and a ghost.

His eyes follow her when she pulls off of him and unlaces her boots, her socks are mismatched like the rest of her, "Yeah."

"You miss me?"

"Yeah."

"That's enough for me."

"Is it?"

"Most of the time."

"What about the rest of the time?"

"I pretend it is."

She doesn't look at him, just nods and stares down at the floral pattern of her dress around the hills of her knees she has pulled to her chest, the line of buttons down to the hem of it digs into her chin and cheek when she rests her head there.

When she looks up at him he's staring, "I _miss_ you." She says it again, but now she's saying something completely different, admitting to something else she's been ashamed of. She takes a hard inhale off her cigarette, picks up one of his shoes and smashes it out on the wood floor.

"Me?"

"Us."

"Us, oh," he starts, before getting quiet and reaching out a hand, he runs fingers over the side of her neck, her shoulder. "Us, like…this?"

"Uh-huh."

"But not all the time."

"…," she shakes her head, because she doesn't miss him, not when she babysits her dead baby brother, or when her dad smiles at her, or when she folds towels with Moira and her mom during the slow days.

He's biting the inside of his cheek before taking in a shaky breath and smiling weakly, "I'm sorry I hurt you so bad."

"I know…," And she believes him because she needs to, otherwise she's alone, "I know."

* * *

II.

She finds Violet. On top of Tate.

Having _sex_ with Tate.

And all her rage froths up like sea foam in her gut, filling her up as she spins away from the open doorway and the thing that's hurting her.

The house made her lose her baby after all.

She takes a knife from the block in the kitchen and pulls down the stairs to the attic.

Hayden is there and she stabs her over and over and over again.

* * *

III.

"It's not your fault. It's his."

Hayden rolls her eyes at the burning woman.

"Yeah well, tell that to Saint Vivien. Fucking martyr she is."

"Young women are impressionable, stupid. You're a stupid slut but it's not your fault. _He_ didn't say no."

"Guess you're glad your girls never grew up, aren't you?"

"There's no reason to be so mean."

"There's no reason to call me a slut. I loved him."

"Then maybe you're just stupid."

"Yeah, maybe. You going to just stand there or help me clean up?"

"It's your blood, your mess."

And Lorraine leaves and Hayden doesn't pretend to be so bored that she needs company like hers.

* * *

IV.

Mommy had told them to go play somewhere else while she talked to the nice lady who lets them play with her hair and has tea party with them and their floppy smelly dolls sometimes.

They go outside and try to find an adventure.

The little boy next door is mean, he threw a rock at Angie and poked her with a broomstick when they got close enough to ask him if he wanted to play.

He called them ugly and made her sister cry. She threw a rock at him but it missed.

* * *

V.

The child is of foul temperament but he is beautiful. Angelic, and she knows with a firm hand and some doting he could be such a sweet little boy.

When he sees her he smiles, she raises a hand to her pearls and smiles back before waving.

She shoos away the little monsters that come up to her and their appeals to her about the boy being mean.

The little boy just waits and she so longs to go over to him and snatch him away. He flings a dead rabbit over the hedges. She can't help but smile down at it.

He's gone when she looks up.

* * *

VI.

He's outside just enjoying the day as the little girls run by him back into the basement and Nora skulks about. The other set of kids tackle each other on the lawn and kick at each other. He pulls them apart.

"Fag!" One shouts at him after he throws him a bit.

"Be careful, kid. I can run faster than you can." He picks up the fallen bat, "Catch."

"What?"

It hits the boy in the stomach, winding him a bit.

"You wanna play or what fuck-face?"

"Really?" The other one girns.

Pat nods, "Yeah."

"Are you gonna try to buttfuck us?"

"Because we'll hit you, with bats."

"Yeah, bats."

He rolls his eyes and assures them both that he doesn't like redheads.

They hit baseballs that reappear back on the property if they go too far.

The lady of the house breaks it up with questions and demands of "What are you doing on my property? What are you screaming about? Leave, before I call the police." And so on.

"Oooooh, scary."

"Bitch."

Pat laughs and the twins run circles around her, tapping her with the bats and then running off with the baseball in hand.

"Come back here!" She shrieks.

One of them sends the ball flying through the glass of the back door.

* * *

VII.

There's the distinct sound of glass shattering into so many pieces that kitchen will be a silent physical threat to bare feet for at least a week, no matter how often she sweeps or goes over the tiles with a wet paper-towel for the invisible hair fine slices.

And then following a moment after is everything on the counter rolling off as it topples from the force of whatever broke the glass panes of the back door.

She goes and surveys the damage before going to retrieve the necessary supplies.

There's an audience at the back door that scurries off without helping once they see her scowl.

Her knees creak as she crouches to sweep the mess into the dustpan. The glass grates against the metal and sticks in the yellow bristles.

* * *

VIII.

He helps out where and when he can. He rips up garbage bags and tapes them over the empty panes he's knocked the jagged broken windows out of.

Moira doesn't say thank you or say much of anything. But Moira hasn't ever been very kind to him.

He vastly prefers her silence after having seen what she's like when she isn't so piss and vinegar.

The old maid is setting the spice rack back on the kitchen island and picking up dishtowels.

The monotony of cleaning helps take his mind off what his wife did upstairs.

There was so much blood.

And she'd just stared at him like if he said a word he'd be next.

Moira makes a comment about the knife that's missing from the block and he just shrugs noncommittally.

* * *

IX.

He passes Moira on his way into the kitchen. And oh goody the doctor is in. It's been awhile since Chad's been able to stir up some trouble. As he goes to the fridge, admiring the shine on the chrome, for whatever poor excuse for booze is kept in the freezer he smiles, "So what's it like fucking my husband?"

Ben Harmon just turns and eyes the bottle of chilled vodka, "Excuse me?"

"Yes, _excuse you_."

"…"

Ben just scowls and grabs a glass from the cabinet, he sets it down in front of Chad and then, surprisingly, pours him a drink.

But the small gesture doesn't make him reel back from his purpose of snarking a bit at the doctor's expense.

"Let me guess you're going to give me a sad little story about how you've been stuck in a unhappy marriage that has always felt like a lie, where you've been hiding who you are and that my husband makes you feel like that man you've always knew you could be."

"You're gay Chad. I'm just unsatisfied."

"Anything that walks?" He tries to contain his pinched look, "Is that what you mean? Because that's what they _all_ say, at first. Until they come to terms with the sexual identity they've found shameful to have for all their lives."

"No, you don't get it."

Chad downs his drink before digging his heels in, "Unless I was blind I'm sure I understand what Pat sucking your dick means. There's no subliminal message to a blowjob."

Ben pours him another round and takes a swig for himself.

"No, there isn't. He gives good head, so what? But he likes things a little rough. And so do I. Sex doesn't factor into that as much as being able to do things to him that I can't do to my wife, things you really wouldn't enjoy doing to him."

"…"

"And I heard that things were getting better between you two lately. He can go to you and be happy with redecorating and your vanilla preferences because I cum on his face and use him as an ashtray every once in awhile."

"Well…" Now he's at a bit of a loss.

Ben raises the bottle, "Cheers."

"Hmm. Cheers."

Chad reasons it could always be worse.

* * *

X.

He's on his third shot when Travis walks in, sans shirt.

He tries to ignore him but really, where's the wrong in looking?

Travis takes a swing from the bottle and Chad just bites back his disgust in the habit.

* * *

XI.

"Hey, don't look so sad. Today was beautiful wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was. I suppose. I didn't go outside, I don't want to tan, it'd ruin my complexion. The camera doesn't like swarthy girls."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I don't know, the girls today are all tan. But maybe your right, pale might be a commodity."

Travis smiles at her and walks off, cheerfully. Maybe tomorrow he'll try to get her to go outside. It's not good to stay indoors alone all the time.

* * *

XII.

The man says he knows she's been looking for someone to run lines with. He introduces himself. His name is Hugo and he has such a nice smile. Kind eyes.

And his laugh is loud and makes her laugh too.

She does things with him that she regrets later and then forgets.

* * *

XIII.

Sometimes he's fully aware of his predicament and that of everyone else living in Connie's little House of Horrors.

Fully aware that some of them don't exactly realize the extent of their plight. Pity. Not really. It just makes it easier for him.

He's handsome and once Connie thought she was going to be a big actress too.

The ghost's name is Elizabeth and while he prefers blondes he makes due.

So he plays the part of a man who knows how to make girls famous and Elizabeth leaves a red smear of lipstick on his briefs that Moira will rinse out for him later if he's willing to give her what she wants.

* * *

**A/N:** So yeah, I promise a smutty oneshot side scene in the near future.


End file.
